


Won't you take me home tonight

by Gorillazgal86, improfem



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Extramarital Affairs, F/F, F/M, Mutual Pining, Other, Podfic Welcome, She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Transformative Works Welcome, go figure, motherhood is exhausting, so is saving the world, sort of canon compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-24 22:58:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21107417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorillazgal86/pseuds/Gorillazgal86, https://archiveofourown.org/users/improfem/pseuds/improfem
Summary: Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis are a year into their godparenting assignment, and things are looking good. If, by 'looking good', you mean Warlock Dowling seems to be a perfectly normal child with a slightly unorthodox appreciation of stories about witch burnings.If, by normal, you mean something along the lines of marvellous, all ship-shaped, just tickety-boo, you would find yourself in strong disagreement with a certain demon. After a year of near constant contact with her angel, Crowley is ready to make some very, very stupid decisions. Lucky for her, Harriet Dowling is a frustrated, lonely mother with a marriage on the brink of combustion, and more than happy to help.





	Won't you take me home tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Fat Bottomed Girls" because it is a truth universally acknowledged that every writer in the Good Omens fandom needs at least one fic named after a line from a Queen song. And how could we not choose the one that contains the phrase 'Naughty Nanny'?

Crowley would be the first to admit that her plans usually blew up in her face. Quite spectacularly, one might add - she was nothing if not a professional. And damn it, she was a demon, after all, so it was only right that her plans usually ended in chaos and mayhem.

Except, this one hadn't.

It had been a year since Aziraphale and her had accepted their new positions in the Dowling's household, and so far, everything was going by the book. Nanny Ashtoreth sang baby Warlock to sleep every night, to lullabies promising blood and destruction. The next day, she'd take him to the gardens where a well-meaning Brother Francis introduced the impressionable young mind to the wonders of God's creation.

Really, quite perfect. Except.

Except she hadn't bargained for working alongside Aziraphale, day in and day out, and keeping up the ridiculous facade of being, what was it he was so fond of calling them? Hereditary enemies.

_Bullshit. _

For starters, what kind of angel invited their hereditary enemy into their cottage, and kept them there using every alcoholic wile known to man? What kind of angel, for that matter, had any business looking so ridiculously tempting in a full suit, bowtie undone at some time during the course of the evening, and gesticulating wildly while he was going on a tangent about Satan knew what?

"Unbelievable," she murmured under her breath, and drained her glass.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at Crowley from across the table.

“Something on your mind my dear?”

She looked up from the glass she'd been in the process of refilling, and paused. Couldn't very well say _Yes, actually, I've been thinking about pulling off that blessed bowtie of yours and snogging your face off, would you mind if I gave that a try_, now, could she?

"Ngk. No. Just."

She lifted the bottle and gave it a slight wave, to demonstrate the appalling lack of liquid inside.

"We're out. And I'm _not_ ending my one night off in a _week_ without at least getting properly drunk."

Azirphale shrugged, as if to say _Can’t argue with that_. 

He’d made it abundantly clear that while he adored baby Warlock as an occasional appearance in his life, he was more than glad not to have been saddled with the role of the nanny. As far as Aziraphale was concerned, celestial beings aged 6000 years and then some, but didn’t have the patience or the constitution to handle human babies. They were lovely to look at, but a bit like visitors to his bookshop, the less amount of time spent around them, the better.

“I would certainly never deny you that singular pleasure. But I get the impression, that isn’t what’s bothering you.”

He leaned back in his chair, sipping eloquently on his own drink and surveying Crowley with a lingering look, taking in her tightly fitted dress, her matching heels and oversized sunglasses.

“So, you’re looking to get properly drunk. Is this to be a solo affair or do you mind if I join you?”

On another night, the badly concealed ogling might have amused Crowley, even pleased her, but tonight it just made her bristle. Whatever this game was Aziraphale was playing, she was running out of patience with it as surely as the world was running out of time.

Generally speaking, Crowley was an optimist. But even she had to admit that the cards seemed rather stacked against them in this case. And, if Armageddon really was coming, she didn't intend to waste any more time trying to figure out what in the _heaven_ Aziraphale's lips tasted like.

"Do I mind? I'm counting on it, because you're buying."

Of course, they could easily just have conjured up another few bottles of the red they'd been drinking. Or, if they were going to go out, it would certainly be in line with their usual dynamic for Crowley to treat Aziraphale. Even now, when she usually had to wave off an astonished look from a waiter who just _couldn’t_ believe the lady was paying, they'd never seen the need to change a well-worn habit. Well, a bit of variety never hurt anyone.

She swung her legs down from the armrests of the chair she'd been lounging in and reached for her leather jacket.

"Come on, sugar daddy. I know a store that's still open.”

Aziraphale scrambled after her with a flustered expression, patting his pockets for his wallet.

“Sugar daddy?! I beg your pardon, but I don’t even know what that means!”

"'course you don't. Means you're paying for the pleasure of my company, but I'm too classy to take cash," she declared with flair, marching off in the direction of the store she'd had in mind, but not without relishing the look of utter disbelief on Aziraphale's face."

At Aziraphale's flustered look at the explanation of “sugar daddy", Crowley had almost been ready to soften, and reassure him that of course she didn’t keep track, didn’t mind paying. Would mind, actually, if they suddenly got hung up on something so human and, frankly, inconsequential as money. The scandalised expression that followed, however, had her very glad that she'd done no such thing.

_You cannot keep a bloody bookshop in Soho, Angel, and then pretend like such things are beneath you. Pick one._

“Why I would never!” He cried out behind her and broke into an awkward jog to catch up.

No, of course he wouldn't. If Crowley was being too honest with herself – and she was probably right around that level of intoxication that lent itself to it, one more reason to hurry up and get more alcohol – there never would be any reason for it. No matter how frustrating and one-sided their relationship got, she had never been able to stop herself from hanging around Aziraphale like a moth repeatedly crashing into the same, brightly lit window.

"Oh, loosen up," she just snapped, willing to let the topic go, but not feeling quite apologetic enough to say so. "It was just a joke. Let's talk about something else. How's the bookshop? Got someone to fill in for you yet?"

She kept up a brisk pace, pointedly ignoring the way in which the angel had to periodically speed up to make sure he did not fall behind. He still looked perplexed, as though trying to puzzle together how their easy camaraderie of the past year had fallen apart so quickly. 

_Well, sure, for you it’s been all sunshine and sweettalking plants._

It wasn’t that Crowley didn’t enjoy the fact that instead of once every few decades, they now saw each other every day. She relished it, in fact, same as the playful banter they’d always had, only deepened now, perhaps, by the familiarity and the close contact. However, it was becoming increasingly hard to ignore that she also craved another dimension to their relationship, one of which Aziraphale seemed blissfully ignorant.

“The bookshop is fine. And absolutely not, I’ll pop in periodically, but I am not putting someone else in charge. Could you imagine?? They might actually sell the books, and then where would I be? It would be a complete nightmare.”

She hadn't meant to, but at the earnest shock in Aziraphale's last words, Crowley broke into a fond laugh.

"True, can't have you running a successful business. The horror. Don't know how it hasn't occurred to me yet to sell that as a new torturing method. They'd love me downstairs."

“Don’t you dare. The only person it would torture would be me and I have no intention of going anywhere near hell, thank you very much.”

They'd reached the small shop, and while several customers were browsing through the aisles, Crowley marched straight up to the counter.

"Bowmore, 27 year," she demanded, looking expectantly at the cashier.

The young man blinked, clearly needing a moment to understand that she expected him to fetch her order for her, but then hurried off. When he returned, Crowley gave him her most dazzling smile.

"There's a dear."

Let Aziraphale see that others very much would appreciate the pleasure of her company. Not that he'd care. Still, she allowed her hand to linger just a little too long on the young man's arm, and watched the redness creep up from his collar, before she turned to Aziraphale.

"And for you, Angel? Anything special in mind, or are we sharing this one?"

Aziraphale would have appreciated a moment to scan through the shop to make such a decision, but eyed Crowley suspiciously and came to the conclusion that this was very much not a night to linger in public, nor a bottle-between-them kind of night.

“Let’s make that two bottles, shall we.” He turned to the shop keeper behind the counter, beaming a bright smile at him, “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Shooting a pointed look at Crowley, he pulled a battered old wallet out of his jacket and counted out the notes required to cover both.

Crowley waited until the cashier had returned, and then, just to be obnoxious, leaned over to retrieve another note from Aziraphale's wallet, place it on top of the stack, and declare: "Keep the change."

Both of them stared at him with some bewilderment, the younger man seeming to catch up considerably quicker, though.

"Oh, uhm."

Probably not used to receiving tips, let alone tips that amounted to pretty much his wages for the night.

"Thank you! You and your uhm. Date, enjoy the evening."

_See, Angel? That's exactly what people think._ And why shouldn't they. Everywhere they went, it was probably blatantly obvious how Crowley paid attention to Aziraphale's every move, the way only someone very much in love, or very well paid would.

Aziraphale maintained his polite smile, but his voice had taken on an edge of steel.

“Thank you, young man. She isn’t my date, but we will have a lovely evening, hope the same for you.”

Without further ado, he grasped Crowley by the elbow and lead her out of the shop.

“Where did you want to drink this then, Crowley? Shall we go back to bookshop?”

His tone was cordial enough, but his grip had just enough of a bite to suggest he was only just holding himself back from having this argument right in the middle of the footpath.

_Couldn't just let that go, huh? The idea of being on one single singular date with me so horrible?_ Crowley couldn't deny that, underneath the anger that blazed across her expression, there was a heavy dose of heartbreak.

Over the past months, she'd allowed herself to think, well, at least if Aziraphale's heart wasn't quite in the same place as hers, it might get there, at some point. And he did keep giving her indications, like that fucking once-over she'd gotten earlier this evening, alright, so maybe not his heart, but other parts of his anatomy must certainly be interested? Then again, it wouldn't be that hard to just let a remark like this go, would it? If it really was something Aziraphale would appreciate.

"Bookshop sounds fine."

Aziraphale all but miracled then both into to the bookshop the moment Crowley agreed. Once in the quiet privacy of the shop, he turned and fixed her with a sharp look that was almost – though not quite – enough to make her flinch.

“What in heaven’s name has gotten into you? Have I said something that’s upset you? I don’t understand!”

_Finally._

Crowley couldn't say what she hoped would come from it, but like any foul mood, hers showed a grim sort of satisfaction at having managed to spread it to someone else.

"I mean. Yes. Is the idea of me as your date so offensive that you have to shout it from the rooftops?"

She knew, of course, that this was not what he’d referred to, but at this point, she was beyond caring.

“Oh, my word, Crowley! You’ve got to be joking. This started well before that so try again!”

Heat was rising in Aziraphale’s voice and he looked like he was barely able to maintain his composure. He pulled two crystal tumblers from his cabinets and set them firmly on the table near them with an air that said hospitality was the furthest thing from his mind right now.

"Nope."

Crowley draped herself into the armchair next to the side table, giving Aziraphale a defiant look.

_If you want your favourite chair, maybe you'll have to stop treating me like I'm so bloody untouchable._

She remained silent for a moment, considering what to say next.

"It's what they all think, you know. The other staff, and even Mrs Dowling. They make their jokes about us all the time, ask me if I'm going on a date with the gardener again."

And while it was somewhat unpleasant, to deal with the teasing undertone that came with the suggestion she might find herself attracted to such an undeniably weird character, the thing that mostly bothered her was not being able to admit how close it was to the truth.

"Could be a good cover. I mean, we'll have to meet much more often, anyway, once the boy gets older, to compare notes. But never mind, I wouldn't want to put you to the trouble of anyone thinking that about you, if it's so repulsive."

Aziraphale didn’t respond. Instead, he sighed and set about pouring them both a drink. He set one in front of Crowley and took a long drink out of his own.

“Crowley, you don’t disgust me,” he finally said. “Please don’t think that. I know what people say about us, the assumptions they make about our relationship, but humans just can’t comprehend a friendship like ours, as so compartmentalize the only way they know how. I wouldn’t take it to heart.”

Crowley emptied her drink without giving it much of a thought, and immediately reached for the bottle to refill her glass. She remained silent for a moment, considering her options.

The fact was, Aziraphale was right. Of course humans were always jumping to conclusions, and would probably have done so with any other pair of closely-interacting acquaintances, especially if they were of different genders and vaguely the same age.

The fact was also, Aziraphale had hardly ever so clearly _not_ entirely rejected the idea.

Taking another sip to steady her nerves, she pushed out of the chair, circling the angel and putting her arms around him before he could make any motion to pull back.

"Doesn't have to be just a friendship, though does it?", she purred in his ear, ignoring the way her heart had leapt into her throat at the sudden contact. She rested her head on Aziraphale's shoulder and tried to make out as much of his expression as she could, standing behind him like that.

"No harm in getting a little fun out of this, as long as the world might be ending. I'm sure even head office couldn’t mind, you'll have to take very close tabs on my wiles, after all."

For a moment, she could have almost sworn she felt Aziraphale lean into the touch. Before she could be sure, however, the angel froze, and Crowley could feel his muscles tense under her hands. He breathed deeply and turned slowly to face Crowley.

“Crowley...... I care for you, deeply and if you don’t know that, please believe me. But,” he paused, watching Crowley’s face carefully. “But, I think we both know, that’s not a good idea.”

There were times (and yes, at least to herself, she could admit that those times were very much connected to the influence of a certain angel), when Crowley would have liked to be a better woman. A woman, perhaps, who would respond to this sort of rejection with grace and understanding.

Crowley, however, was not that woman.

"Fine, have it your way," she spat instead and jerked back her hands, as though withdrawing them had been her choice. As though they hadn't been awkwardly hanging in the air already, pushed away by Aziraphale's movement.

"If you're too uptight to allow yourself some fun, I won't force it on you. In fact."

She reached for her glass and drained it, considering briefly that maybe, continuing to take shots of entire tumblers of scotch was not the wisest move, even with an infernal constitution.

"Let me get out of your hair. You've already pointed out that we can easily get drunk all on our own, after all. Good night, Angel. See you tomorrow."

With that, she grabbed the already-opened bottle from the table, leaving behind the second, untouched one, and miracled herself back into her room at the Dowling residence.

It was only once she'd sat down on her bed that it occurred to her there might be questions in the morning. The guard had seen her leave, and come morning, she'd be here, without any evidence of re-entry.

Oh, fuck it.

She could always get at that with a little demonic miracle in the morning. For now, she had plans to get good and drunk.

In spite of her best intentions, however, Crowley found her mind replaying the scene she'd just made. Not very dignified and, more importantly, not at all fair. If Aziraphale didn't want anything to happen between them, she mused as she took a deep swig out of the bottle in her hands, that was his right.

Perhaps Crowley had been reading too much into a few lingering glances, an indulgent smile here and there. A passing touch. She shivered at this last thought, considering with some horror how casually she'd drawn Aziraphale close, perhaps too close for comfort. They didn't normally touch, after all. Crowley had assumed that was part of their cover, but, perhaps, she'd thought wrong.

There was, of course, another possibility. The possibility of Aziraphale taking her words at face value, and being genuinely shocked at the idea of a merely physical relationship. Crowley had never dared to ask what Aziraphale's stance, or indeed his practice, on passing sexual relationships was. She didn't want to know, if she was being quite honest, if the angel had fallen into bed with humans over the past few centuries, and if so, how often.

In any case, he had to know that this was not what Crowley had been offering, right? Their dance had become quite elaborate, over the millennia of their friendship. Their unspoken conversations just as important as the spoken ones, if not more so. "Let's have lunch" might as well mean "Spend some time with me, I've missed you." "I'll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go," – "Please, I don't want to watch you leave, and your safety is important to me." "Nobody could object to thwarting a few wiles," – "We have the same goal here, one that nobody else would understand."

So how, in the bloody heaven, could anyone think what she'd been offering was a meaningless one-night stand?

No.

There really was only one explanation.

Aziraphale had turned down Crowley's offer because he, simply, was not interested.

~~~

Aziraphale buried his face in his hands, letting out a shout of frustration to no one in particular. He opened the other bottle of whiskey and took a deep drink without bothering with a glass. The sharp burn was a welcome distraction.

He sat down trying to replay what had happened. Had he imagined it or had Crowley come onto him? They had always had a delicate dance of flirting and suggestive conversation, but this was an explicit invitation, which had he said yes to, he’d be having a much different evening.

He took another generous swing of his whiskey, trying to piece together what it all meant. Why had Crowley been so cross with him, only to turn around and want to sleep with him? Further, she had framed it as “fun.”

While Aziraphale wouldn’t admit to having put much thought to what a physical relationship with Crowley could be like, he hadn’t envisioned the first time as a drunk and sloppy one-night stand. He was of the opinion of you were going to take 6,000 years to get there, it was going to be deliberate, intimate and passionate and... well, it didn’t matter and it didn’t bear thinking about.

The bookshop suddenly felt very empty and alone. He rather wished Crowley would come back, but that would just mean they would continue this row.

Restless, Aziraphale got up and sought out a comfortable, easy read of a book to distract him. However, after a few barely-remembered pages, he had to admit it was doing a terrible job, and drinking alone had little appeal.

His mind was still replaying the earlier part of the evening on repeat like a film. They had never shared such an intimate embrace. It had been thrilling. The angel could imagine an alternate universe where a hug and nuzzle from behind was an everyday, unremarkable occurence. He wanted to live in that reality, but he didn’t.

He stood and began to pace around the bookshop, unable to settle. The trouble was, if Aziraphale had taken Crowley up on her offer, he was not certain he’d ever be able to part from her again. They had crossed many lines, but romantic love and sex were their final frontier.

The angel feared to tread too close to that line because it was the last shred of plausible deniability they had left. The last shield should their head offices at last realize what had been going on.

So, he continued to play the upright, prudish angel, to protect himself, to protect her. He just wished it hadn’t hurt Crowley; wasn’t that exactly what he was trying to avoid?

It was nights like this he was jealous of Crowley’s ability to sleep. To pass the evening hours in restful oblivion would have been preferred to pass in the hours. But sleep would not claim Aziraphale, and so he was left alone with his thoughts.

**Author's Note:**

> Want to comment, but not sure what to say?   
We welcome any kind of comment – short sentences or emojis as much as long lists of copied sentences you liked with or without your reaction, and of COURSE long rants or analyses on what you liked. Constructive criticism is also always appreciated!  
If you’re stuck on what to say, the Long Live Feedback comment builder is a neat tool. It exists as either a [Google sheet](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1lOqWGDNquHxr23l84ASKn-vdSLFrHop4giVOYDkKnWI/edit#gid=547831518) or an [excel sheet](https://onedrive.live.com/view.aspx?resid=5483CD320B0B1070!128&ithint=file%2cxlsx&authkey=!AH0iTc9X_UtUzCE), both of which help you generate comments that express what you liked about a story without you having to find or type the words. Comments can be customised or fully generated by the tool, and we promise, as your authors, we will love you for commenting more frequently!


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